Samyak and Ramya lived in a small rented house at the edge of the village. It was old, with cracked walls and a tin roof that made noise when it rained. But it was home. After their parents died in a road accident five years ago, it was just the two of them.
Samyak was 25. He worked part-time at a printing shop in town and did some online data entry work at night. Quiet by nature, he spoke only when needed. Ramya was younger, 22, and full of life. She loved old Hindi songs, sketching faces in her notebook, and sitting on the roof to watch the stars.
They didn’t have many friends. Samyak preferred it that way. People talked too much in their village. They noticed everything — who came, who left, who laughed too loudly, or wore clothes that didn’t “fit the culture.”
But still, Ramya smiled through it all.
One evening, as they sat on the terrace eating roasted peanuts, she looked at him and said, “Bhaiya, can I tell you something?”
Samyak glanced at her. “Hmm?”
She hesitated. “I’m in love.”
He stopped chewing.
“With whom?” he asked, surprised.
She looked down, blushing. “His name is Aman. He studies in town. We met at the library. He’s kind. And he listens when I speak.”
Samyak didn’t say anything for a while. He trusted his sister. But he also knew how the village would react if they found out. A girl falling in love without family approval — it wasn’t just frowned upon. It was dangerous.
“Be careful, Ramya,” he finally said. “Don’t trust too quickly.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s why I’ve told only you.”
From that day, Ramya became more secretive. She left for town more often, saying she had classes. Sometimes she came back with flowers in her bag. Her phone would beep late at night, and she’d smile quietly while replying.
Samyak didn’t stop her. He wanted her to be happy. But a part of him felt afraid.
Then, the whispers started.
The neighbor’s wife asked him, “Where does your sister go every day?”
A shopkeeper stared too long when Ramya walked by.
At night, Samyak overheard men talking outside their house, saying things like “shameless girl” and “no respect for tradition.”
He warned her again. “People are noticing.”
“I don’t care what they say,” Ramya replied. “I love him. That’s not a crime.”
Samyak wished the world was as simple as her heart.
But he knew — in this village, love was a reason to be punished.
And they were already being watched.
The first real trouble began when someone saw Ramya and Aman together at the tea stall near the bus stand.
An old man who often sat there told others, “She wasn’t wearing a dupatta properly. Sitting too close to that boy. Laughing.”
By evening, the whole village was buzzing.
By morning, it reached the panchayat.
Two women came to Samyak’s door, pretending to borrow sugar. One of them asked, “Your sister... she’s studying in town, right? Alone?”
Samyak didn’t reply. He knew what they meant.
That night, he waited for Ramya at the gate. When she came home, he spoke softly but firmly.
“Did you go to the tea stall with Aman?”
Ramya looked surprised. “Just for five minutes. Why?”
“Someone saw you. They’re talking.”
She sighed and sat on the steps. “Let them talk. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Samyak sat beside her. “You didn’t. But they don’t care. They just want a reason to attack.”
Ramya looked away. “I love him, bhaiya. He said he’ll talk to his parents soon. We want to get married.”
Samyak closed his eyes. “I believe you. But this place… it doesn’t forgive love.”
In the following days, things worsened.
People stopped greeting Samyak at the temple. Shopkeepers gave strange looks. A few boys shouted rude things when Ramya walked past them. Someone threw a stone at their window at night. When Samyak stepped outside, he saw no one — only laughter echoing from the darkness.
He wanted to leave. Take Ramya and go far away. But they had no money, no relatives in the city, and nowhere to run.
Then came the village meeting.
Men with serious faces sat in a circle under the banyan tree. Samyak was called, questioned, blamed.
“What kind of brother allows such behavior?”
“Has she no shame?”
“Love? What love? These are dirty things brought from films.”
Samyak kept his head low. He didn’t argue. He just wanted to protect her.
That evening, Ramya stayed silent. She didn’t eat. She didn’t speak. She just stared out the window.
The sky outside had turned dark.
Something in the air had changed — heavier, colder, cruel.
Samyak knew.
They were no longer just being watched.
They were being judged.
And judgment, in this village, often ended in punishment.
Three days after the village meeting, everything changed.
A photo began spreading — a blurry picture of Ramya and Aman holding hands near the railway crossing. Someone had taken it secretly and shared it on a local WhatsApp group. By noon, nearly every house in the village had seen it.
By evening, a crowd had gathered outside Samyak’s house.
It started with whispers.
Then shouting.
“Shameless girl!”
“She’s ruined our village name!”
“Drag them out!”
Samyak closed all the windows. Ramya was sitting in a corner, her hands shaking. She had seen the photo. Her eyes were wide with fear now, not pride.
“Will they come inside?” she asked, her voice small.
“I won’t let them,” Samyak said, standing in front of the door.
But the door was just wood.
And the people outside were full of fire.
They threw stones. One hit the window and broke it. Another hit Samyak on the shoulder. He didn’t move. He held a wooden stick and kept Ramya behind him.
Someone kicked the door. It cracked.
Then the door broke open.
Ten... maybe fifteen people rushed in.
Men, young and old. Some had sticks. Some had belts. Their faces were filled with hate. This wasn’t about tradition anymore. It was about power. About punishing what they didn’t understand.
They grabbed Samyak and beat him to the ground. He tried to stand. Someone kicked him in the chest. He heard Ramya scream.
“Leave her!” he shouted.
But they didn’t listen.
They pulled her by her hair. She fought. She cried. She begged.
And then... they dragged her into the back room.
Samyak tried to crawl. Blood in his mouth. He couldn’t move. Could only hear.
Her screams.
Their laughter.
Then silence.
Cold, horrible silence.
When the police arrived two hours later, the house was almost empty. The mob had scattered. Only Samyak lay bleeding on the floor. Ramya’s body was in the back room, broken and lifeless.
An officer stood over Samyak.
“Looks like a family fight gone too far,” he said.
The next day, the headline in the local paper read:
“Brother Kills Sister Over Love Affair — Arrested on the Spot
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